Chapter 13 Declan #2
We lock up and pile into the car with guns loaded while Cal talks to Roark.
“So you really didn’t find out anything tonight?” I ask Seamus.
He frowns, checking his gun. We most likely won’t need them, but it pays to be ready. “Nothing much. Can’t find anyone to blame for the da’s disappearance.”
“Everything points to her mam knowing where Heston is and leaving him there. She wants the power,” Cal says as he hangs up.
“The da…” Torin’s voice is low. “He gambles, fucks around, likes strippers, and living on the edge. Dotes on his kid. He’s old money, born and bred. But he owes and doesn’t like to pay up.”
“Until he has to,” Cal says. “Shares, homes, deals, favors.”
“The usual for the rich fucks of the world. Their type’s worth more alive and happy than dead or miserable.
One other thing…” Torin continues, making a left turn.
“He put up a lot of his company shares as collateral here and there. He’s burned through money.
Maybe he’s hiding from the Wicked Witch of Central Park West?
Or made a deal with her to stay out of sight? ”
He pulls up next to a rundown building in Washington Heights that’s seen better days, better decades, actually. We follow Cal inside.
A man waits in the foyer for us. Without a word, he leads us down to the basement. To our cousin.
Chained up to an old washing machine is a guy, no older than early twenties. Shaved head. Tattoos that won’t bode well for him.
Enemies from rival gangs are one thing. Neo-Nazi types are another.
Roark crouches down next to the guy, pulls his head back so the fuck’s got no choice than to look up at my cousin. “I really want to do the world a favor by shooting your pecker right off, but we need to talk, so you might get a chance to keep it.” He glances up at us. “Or not.”
Cal steps up and slams his foot down on the bastard’s gonads. The scream that follows is unholy. “Why the fuck were you shooting at my brother and his lass?”
“Fuck you.” He spits blood on Cal’s boot.
I kick him hard in the ribs. It’s not the way I usually operate, but the fucker’s not worth anything more. He tried to shoot Molly.
I step away and suck in oxygen to get the rage under control. Cal can be harder than titanium—cold and brutal. Although, all my brothers can all be brutal in their own way.
And me?
I cause fucking trouble, dive into the fray, and get what needs to be done, done. I don’t kill in cold blood. Even with the fever pounding through me, I never do that.
They won’t let me.
But right now…
Something snaps inside. A soft pop of sound, and then I’m slammed by a wall of emotion, blinded by a thick red haze.
I shove the others out of the way to get to my target.
I want nothing more than to see this Nazi fuck bleed and hurt.
I hurl my fists at him, pounding and beating him in a mad rage.
Blood spurts, bones crunch, and my temples pound and throb with every punch I land, fury burning through my veins.
I grind my boot into his throat, crushing his Adam’s apple.
Then I drop to my knees, grab his balls and dick and viciously twist them, trying to pull them from his body.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I process the howls and pleas before he goes limp. It takes someone else—Cal—to drag me off him. I snarl as he yanks me off the guy. The fucker tried to kill Molly. He hasn’t suffered enough.
I pull away from my brother and grab the fuck’s head, slamming it into the side of the washing machine over and over until the white metal is streaked with blood. Then when he tries to speak, I hold his head against it.
“If you aren’t looking for an appointment with the fucking Devil,” I growl, “I suggest you tell me who hired you.”
“Johann…Schultz…”
This time two of my brothers haul me off him and send me tumbling across the basement.
“Calm the fuck down,” Seamus grunts into my ear. “I get it, I do. We all do.”
“You don’t.” My head spins. “I need—”
“You need to speak to this Schultz.” Torin glances at Roark. “And this prick?”
“After we check with Schultz, he’s roadkill. Just a run-of-the mill ex-military shit who got ousted dishonorably. When we call, do what you need to.” Roark looks at me. “Let’s go talk with Schultz.”
I follow him out. He throws some wet wipes my way in the car as he drives.
It’s about ten or fifteen minutes before he speaks again.
“I know Schultz. He’s the go-to people use to take care of issues when they don’t want things traced back to them and they don’t want to owe organized crime for any favors. ”
I wipe the last of the blood off. Organized crime uses Roark, too. Those who hire him will be untraceable. Anyone we meet in person will be a third party and…
I frown. “Why are we going to him?”
“We’re not. I’ve already met with him. Here.” He pulls a photo out of his glove box. “That your girl?”
“She’s not…” The words die on my lips.
Marlowe.
At the truck graveyard.
Fuck.
“She’s a client.” I stick to those words.
He slants me a look. He drives in silence for a while until he finally pulls into a side street near a strip of restaurants and bars on the Upper West Side.
“Yeah, well, he had something to say about that. According to the story I heard, she works for someone, maybe the dead cop. You know how deadly rumors can be.”
Fuck, I know how bad they can be.
“There’s more. Some drugs that were there for a drop went missing.”
A cold bolt of horror races through me. “Drugs?”
“Not yours. Two mill in heroin.”
“Who was doing the drop?”
“That was a family affair. But someone named Mario seems to have been involved. Schultz just mentioned Mario’s brother’s looking for him after the drop went south.”
Mario.
The mysterious fucking Mario.
“Mario who?”
“Do you know how many Marios there are?” he says, and I can’t shake the feeling he’s being evasive.
“And the family?”
“Not important.”
I grab his arm. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No. But I’ve got clients, too. And I’ve given you all the information I can. I think the photo of your girl’s the only thing you should worry about, got it?” When I don’t answer, Roark says, “I’m on your side. We’re fucking blood, Dec.”
I follow Roark into an Irish pub. Since Cal, Seamus, and Tor are there drinking, I guess the place is his and they’re all here to coddle me.
The cold anger starts to build in my chest.
How I feel about Marlowe is irrelevant. She’s just a job. One I can do. Without my brothers. Or my cousin.
“What happened to the Nazi fuck?” I ask.
Cal meets my eyes. “Dead. Tell me about the photo Roark gave you. I’m fucking interested.”
“She’s not…she’s no criminal mastermind. And this picture shouldn’t even exist. I cut those damn security camera wires,” I mutter, putting the photo down. “So…”
“You didn’t get them all, eejit,” Seamus says.
“I did. Two old school cameras were set high up, nothing that would have taken this photo. Gotta be a deep fake. The resolution’s too good, the shadows are wrong.”
Nobody else sits close by to us, but since Roark doesn’t seem bothered by the conversation, I’d guess the other patrons are his people. “Which means there are probably pictures of me, too.”
“They’d have surfaced by now. Someone’s either out to hurt her, or she’s in on it all,” Roark says. “Maybe she went in for the heroin.”
“She didn’t leave with it. Not that it was there,” I snap.
A look I don’t like flashes across Cal’s face.
I reach for the glass offered to me and down the whiskey. “Marlowe’s a lot of things, but she’s not a criminal.”
“She could be a pawn,” Torin says.
The word traitor hangs in the air, but no one voices it.
I reach for my humor, but it slides just out of reach. Because the last thing I need is my family turning on her.
Roark smooths a ringed hand along the edge of the bar. “The photo comes with rumors.”
“Like what?” I bite out.
My cousin meets my gaze. “That she lured the cartel there.”
I stare at them all. Seamus pours another drink and downs it. “Or she lured the mafia. Depends who ye talk to.”
“Molly’s not fucking anything but a dancer,” I snap. “What the—?”
“You know that, we know that, but if someone’s trying to get her killed, then…slap on a price to take her out and no one’s going to care.”
“Jesus,” I say. “The redhead in the photo is Marlowe. They’ll be saying she tried to pit the mafia against the cartel. The truth doesn’t matter. The rumor does. We need to kill it flat. I need to do something. Her mam’s right, someone’s definitely threatening her.”
And it’s not just the stalker.
Cal peels away and takes me by the arm. “We will get this done. We’re family, Dec.”
“They won’t try to hurt her if we say we’re married, right? Who’d target us?”
“It wasn’t a blood wedding, Dec. So, yeah, someone might try. But why would someone target her?”
“Maybe it has to do with her da?”
“Or it could be that stalker?” He squeezes my shoulder. “Look, she’s protected by us, and we’ll make sure that rumor’s killed before it spreads. No one wants a war with us. We control too many important routes. Don’t lose your shit.”
He’s right. Cal’s always right. But I can’t sit around with my dick in my hand. I’ll clear her name. Smoke out her father’s enemies. End the stalker. Hunt down this Mario prick.
And when it’s over…
I’ll do the one thing I’m already dreading.
I’ll let her go.
Before she realizes she should have run from me in the first place.